


But here's what happened . . . later

by russian_blue



Category: Clue (1985)
Genre: 1960s, Character Death, Gen, Historical, Misses Clause Challenge, Post-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 10:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13029564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/russian_blue/pseuds/russian_blue
Summary: Ten years after the events at Hill House, another set of letters goes out.





	But here's what happened . . . later

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faithfulcynic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithfulcynic/gifts).



_Paris, 1964_

She stumbled backward into the room, giggling and weaving on her high heels. The man followed her with an enthusiastic leer, kicking the door shut behind him, while his bodyguard waited patiently in the corridor outside. The bottle of wine in the man's fingers dangled so loosely, it posed an imminent threat to the white carpet.

Then one of his shoes crunched down on paper. "What's this?" he said, his French a tipsy mumble of exaggerated surprise. In a feat of balance worthy of the record books, he bent to retrieve an envelope from beneath his foot, and made it upright again without mishap.

Only to have the bent paper plucked from his hand an instant later. Frowning and not swaying at all, she produced a small knife from somewhere, slit the envelope, and began to read the contents.

The man, when he attempted to read over her shoulder, was summarily hip-checked onto the bed.

"My dear Grivoise," he said, pouting a little. "Surely that little paper cannot be more interesting than me?"

In thoroughly American English, the woman occasionally known as Miss Scarlet said, "My dear Giscard, _everything_ is more interesting than you."

***

_Chicago, 1964_

The reception was a small one. Much smaller than any of her own weddings. But at this point, there was very little that could impress her; she'd seen it all, and done most of it. At least the catering here was good.

Her date returned, bearing a glass of wine -- and an envelope. "How odd. The bride found this on the gift table, but it has your name on it."

It had _a_ name, anyway. Over the years, she'd been a great many different Mrs. Whoevers. Though she would never admit it to anyone, most of those names were disposable; only one stayed with her.

When she slit open the envelope with her butter knife, the note within was addressed to that name.

She folded the paper, slipped it back into the envelope, and smiled at her date. "My apologies. I'm afraid that work has called me elsewhere."

He stared at her, baffled, as she got up and retrieved her purse. "But -- you don't have a job!"

_Yes, I do,_ Mrs. White thought as she slipped from the room. _And you're very lucky that it no longer seems to involve you._

***

_Washington, D.C., 1964_

She had a secretary these days. Ostensibly because the volume of her correspondence had simply grown beyond what any woman could be expected to manage alone, but in truth her eyesight wasn't what it once was. The outrageous rims of her glasses, once a fashion choice, were now a necessity, to hide how thick the lenses had grown.

But her secretary was well-trained. The young woman knew exactly which letters to pass along, which invitations were going to be accepted. Even if she didn't know why.

It was unusual, therefore, to see the girl standing in her office doorway, fingering an envelope uncertainly. "Sorry, it's just -- this one's very odd."

"Odd how?"

"Well, it's an invitation to dinner . . . but it doesn't say who's inviting you. Just a date, a time, a location, and then it's signed, 'A Friend.'"

In her haste to leap up and snatch the envelope from her secretary's hands, she bumped painfully into the edge of the desk. "Give that to me, let me see --"

It was exactly as the girl had said. That swiftly, she was Mrs. Peacock again, and trapped by an invitation she dared not refuse.

With trembling hands, she crumpled the note and put it in the ashtray, where she burned it. "Call for the car."

***

And _he_ got a letter, and _he_ got a letter, and _he_ got a letter . . .

***

It wasn't raining. There wasn't even a trace of thunder. The sky was perfectly clear, and the stars twinkled innocently above the familiar roofline of Hill House.

"Is this some kind of a joke?"

The young woman who had answered the door only smiled at Colonel Mustard. For one heart-stopping moment he'd thought it was Yvette, back from the dead; she had the same blonde hair and the same oval face. But she wore a pantsuit instead of an absurd French maid outfit, and her voice was pure Midwestern as she said, "Only if you decide to laugh. Would you like to wait in the study?"

Everyone asked her some variant of the same question. They'd changed, the six guests from that lethal dinner party so long ago, but not by much. White had not been permitted to touch the hair of Mrs. White. Mr. Green no longer affected the mannerisms he'd used before revealing himself as FBI, but his suit could have been the same one he'd worn that night. Mrs. Peacock's hat and scarf were updated for the new decade, but every bit as overwrought as before.

Hill House, ten years later to the day. Apart from the new chandeliers, the house might as well have been a time capsule from the Fifties. "You almost expect to find a body already on the floor," Miss Scarlet drawled when she came into the study.

The young woman who greeted them in place of the British "butler" had Wadsworth's politely uninformative manner down pat. And the six guests were every bit as awkward with each other as they'd been ten years before -- albeit for different reasons.

Back then, they'd wondered if one among them was a murderer. Now, they knew they all were.

"Aren't you going to at least serve us dinner first?" Mrs. Peacock said, when everyone had arrived and the young woman unlocked a small drawer in the desk.

"Oh, please," Mrs. White said. "Don't you think we've had enough suspense? I for one would simply like to know what I am doing here."

A chorus of agreement answered her, and Mrs. Peacock fell to sulking.

The young woman smiled. In an uncanny echo of Wadsworth, she said, "Ladies and gentlemen, you all have one thing in common: you're all working for the United States government. For the last ten years, all of you have been carrying out missions for someone who finds your various talents useful. And none of you know who's giving you your orders, do you."

Mrs. Peacock snatched her cigarette from her mouth. "Oh, please, I've never heard anything so --" Then she caught sight of the expressions on the faces of the others, and sagged in annoyance. "Oh, fine; it's true. Go on."

"Very well," the young woman said. "As everyone here is in the same boat, there's no harm in my revealing some details -- and my instructions are to do so."

"Hang on a second," Miss Scarlet said. "It's one thing to send us all invitations on the tenth anniversary of our last 'dinner party.' It's another thing entirely for you to stand there and repeat Wadworth's own words at us -- you weren't here that night. And the tape recordings were burned."

Meticulous as ever, Mr. Green said, "Point of order; we don't know that the tapes we found in the fireplace _were_ those recordings."

"That's right!" Professor Plum said. "They could have been different tapes. Or there might have been more than one tape recorder!"

The young woman went on as if they hadn't spoken. "Miss Scarlet. You've been living in France for some time now, getting close to various men in the Gaullist government and monitoring anti-American sentiment there."

"At least this part is a little bit new," Miss Scarlet said dryly. "Are you going to go around the whole room and expose our secrets, like Wadsworth did?"

"Yes. Colonel Mustard, you are officially retired from the military, but you still have many friends there -- including some of the advisors sent to South Vietnam. Through them, you've uncovered internal sabotage against U.S. military forces."

Mrs. Peacock snorted in disgust. "Sabotage like _he_ used to commit, you mean."

"Speaking of what you used to do . . ." the young woman said, not missing a beat. "While your own corruption has come to an end, Mrs. Peacock, the same cannot be said for some of your friends in Washington. You've been offering bribes of your own in order to trace networks of influence that might, if mentioned in the right corners, bring down some very important names."

Miss Scarlet crowed at that. " _Might!_ But I haven't heard of any spectacular downfalls lately -- at least not any spectacular enough to be talked in about in Paris. Whoever's pulling your strings, young lady, he seems to be happy to just sit on that information. Or is he finding his own way to profit from it?"

Her insinuating question sailed right past without finding a mark. "Mrs. White. You are currently unmarried -- an unusual state for you. In fact, you haven't been married in ten years."

Now it was Colonel Mustard's turn to snort. "I guess word got out. No takers, eh?"

"Not at all," Mrs. White said, folding her hands primly in her lap. "I haven't tried to find a husband. It would only interfere with my --"

She caught herself before she could finish that sentence, but it hardly mattered. The young woman was clearly going to reveal everyone's dirty work whether they wanted her to or not. "Mrs. White is an assassin."

Professor Plum, who had been sitting next to White on one of the couches, immediately stood up. Then he froze, awkwardly attempting to look as if he weren't running away from her, and failing.

It put him next in the line of fire -- a line that got shorter with every revelation. "Professor Plum. Like Mrs. White, you have turned away from your previous circumstances. You no longer work for the WHO."

"That's right," Plum said, going over to the hearth and leaning against the mantel as if he could restore his dignity by pretending to be casual. "It seems that public health doesn't serve the interests of our new master."

"What do they have you doing instead?" Mrs. White asked.

"He's been working for the CIA," the young woman said. "On a project called MKUltra."

Colonel Mustard frowned. "Wait a moment. I've heard whispers about a program by that name. Aren't they trying to develop mind control?"

Plum shifted from foot to foot. "I don't know if I'm allowed to say anything about that."

"It must not work," Scarlet observed. "Otherwise you'd tell us, and then mind control us into forgetting what you said."

"It's a load of rubbish," Plum admitted. "But it's the kind of rubbish _somebody_ would like to keep an eye on." Then he looked at Mr. Green, sitting quietly on the other couch. "Are you going to stand up and announce what you've been doing before she can?"

"Don't you mean, is he going to stand up and lie again?" Mrs. White said dryly.

"I have nothing to lie about," Green said, not moving from his seat.

"I doubt that," Scarlet muttered.

He gave her an unamused look. "I'm still an FBI agent, and as such, I still work to protect the American people against criminals. I feel no particular shame about this -- and I don't know why the rest of you would, either. You've all been doing your part for this country, albeit not by the most respectable methods. Isn't that better than what you were doing before?"

"Perhaps it is because the rest of them did not choose it freely," the young woman said. "Ten years ago, all of you, with the exception of Mr. Green, committed murder in this house."

Mrs. Peacock interrupted, stabbing at Green with her cigarette. "He shot Wadsworth."

"In the line of duty!" Green protested. "And in self-defense. Remember, he was about to shoot me."

The young woman's patience with their interjections seemed to be wearing thin, because she raised her voice. "You each were taken into custody by the FBI and then offered a choice: go to prison, or put your deviousness and lack of morals to use for the government."

"Blackmail again," Colonel Mustard said.

"At least this time it was a type you could all afford. Since then you've proven to be quite useful in your various spheres."

Mrs. White stood up. "Enough of this. Why have we been called here tonight? Why are you sharing this information with everyone?"

"And where," said Miss Scarlet, with heavy irony, "is this year's Mr. Boddy?"

The young woman checked her watch. "He should be here any moment. Have none of you wondered who 'Dr. Black' might be?"

Startled, Mrs. White said, "That's the name on the orders I receive."

"Mine too," Mrs. Peacock said. All of the others echoed her -- except Mr. Green.

"Not mine," he said.

"You're not receiving orders?" Professor Plum said.

Green's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "Oh, I am. But I know who my orders are coming from."

The bell did not ring -- which was probably a good thing, given their associations with the sound. They all simply heard a key turn in the lock, the front door opening, then closing.

Any one of them could have gotten up to see who had arrived. Instead they all stayed where they were, frozen in their seats or out of them, twisting to stare at the entrance to the study.

"Haven't you guessed?" the young woman said.

And a familiar, tuxedo-clad figure stepped into the doorway.

Mrs. White was the first one to move. Already on her feet, she crossed the room in a few quick strides and planted her knee firmly in Wadsworth's crotch.

But this only produced a solid clacking noise, and she, not Wadsworth, was the one to yelp in pain and stumble back. As she rubbed her kneecap resentfully, Wadsworth said, "Mrs. White. Do you really think I would come here tonight and not dress for the occasion?"

Miss Scarlet had snatched up a candlestick from the side table. Mrs. Peacock, setting her feet like a prize-fighter, produced a dagger from her purse. Professor Plum stared at them both. "What, were we all supposed to bring our old party favors?"

"I certainly hope not," Wadsworth said. "Thank you, Sharon." He waited until the young woman had left, then said, "I intended for this to be -- well, something of a reunion."

"A _reunion?_ " Colonel Mustard said in disbelief.

"Yes," Wadsworth said, coming warily into the room, past the vengeful gaze of Mrs. White. "After I was taken to the hospital --"

"See?" Mr. Green declared to the room in general. "I told you I didn't commit murder."

If looks could kill, Wadsworth's would have cut Green dead. "Not for lack of trying. As I was saying: after I was taken to the hospital, Hoover came to see me. He said that while he could not officially condone blackmail and murder, he was impressed by the network of informants I had put together -- and by how well I had orchestrated their disposal. He offered me the same choice he gave all of you, only he offered it to me first. I was the one who suggested to him that the rest of you might also be amenable."

"And since then," Colonel Mustard said, "you've been our handler."

"Well, he knew that none of you would work for me if you knew it was me you were working for."

A brief pause ensued while all of them parsed that sentence. Then Mrs. White said, "So why call us here? Why reveal yourself now?"

"Like I said," Wadsworth replied. "I wanted to hold a reunion."

He looked around the room, taking in their various expressions of disbelief. "Oh, come now. I know we did not part on the best of terms --"

"We didn't meet on the best of terms, either," Scarlet said. She was still gripping the candlestick. "You were _blackmailing_ us."

"And haven't I been much better since then?"

Colonel Mustard grunted. "I nearly got shot in Saigon thanks to you."

"You've nearly been shot in many countries. Why should that one stand out?"

Mr. Green stood up, straightening his suit with a reflexive tug. "Listen. I've known this whole time that Wadsworth was our handler -- well, most of this time. It doesn't make much difference to me; I'm used to taking orders from morally questionable figures who don't particularly care whether I live or die. But for the rest of you . . . you all did despicable things before. Now you're doing despicable things for a cause greater than your own greed. Isn't that an improvement?"

Silence answered him. Then Professor Plum said, "Well, it certainly pays better."

"Not for me," Scarlet muttered, but she laid down the candlestick.

Green nodded. "I'm not saying we all need to pretend we're friends --"

"Why not?" Mrs. Peacock asked, gesturing blithely with her dagger. "That's what they're paying me to do anyway."

"-- but I don't see why we can't at least go on as we have been. Does anyone disagree?"

More silence. One by one, they all grudgingly nodded. Then Wadsworth smiled and said, "I did arrange supper for us. If you would all care to accompany me to the dining room? I believe the cook should still be alive."

***

**That's how it could have happened.**

**But how about this?**

***

Colonel Mustard grunted. "I nearly got shot in Saigon thanks to you."

"You've nearly been shot in many countries. Why should that one stand out?"

Mrs. Peacock advanced on Wadsworth, dagger weaving a little circle in front of his chest. "Let me by, _Dr. Black_."

"Why?" he asked, seemingly unfazed by the weapon. "If you're intending to run away, you should know that I have masters of my own these days, and they won't be inclined to let you simply leave their employment. Not with everything you know."

"Things you took steps to ensure we would learn," Mrs. White said, one gloved hand sweeping to indicate the whole room, and the people in it.

He smiled thinly. "Indeed."

Mrs. Peacock put the dagger away in her purse. "If you must know, I need to -- uh, powder my nose. No need to show me where the little girl's room is; I'm sure I remember."

Wadsworth didn't resist as she pushed past him and into the hall. Mr. Green stood up, straightening his suit with a reflexive tug. "Listen. I've known this whole time that Wadsworth was our handler -- well, most of this time. It doesn't make much difference to me; I'm used to taking orders from morally questionable figures who don't particularly care whether I live or die. But for the rest of you . . . you all did despicable things before. Now you're doing despicable things for a cause greater than your own greed. Isn't that an improvement?"

Silence answered him. Then Professor Plum said, "Well, it certainly pays better."

"Not for me," Scarlet muttered, but she laid down the candlestick.

The crash of the gong made them all jump. Wadsworth merely smiled. "Ah, supper. There is no need to make any decisions now; those can wait until after the meal. If you would all care to accompany me to the dining room? Judging by the gong, I believe the cook is still alive."

They trooped warily into the dining room. Like the study, it was utterly unchanged. Scarlet, however, made a point of striding around to the other side of the table and sitting in the chair Professor Plum had occupied ten years before. The others followed suit, taking different places, in utter disregard of the cards set behind the plates and of the proper etiquette for gender distribution.

"Brave man," Mustard observed as Wadsworth sat in Mr. Boddy's old seat. A moment later the door swung open, and Sharon began carrying out bowls of soup.

No sooner had she vanished back into the kitchen for the next set than Mrs. Peacock came into the room. The only empty seat was, by coincidence, the one she had occupied before -- but as she crossed behind Wadsworth, her dagger flashed out again and set itself against his neck.

He went rigid in his seat. "May I inquire as to what you are doing?"

"He's been tape-recording us," Mrs. Peacock declared to the room as a whole. "Just like before!"

"How on earth did you know?" Wadsworth asked, momentarily distracted. "I made sure the library door was locked."

She preened a little. "I picked the lock with two hairpins. I've learned a lot of interesting things in the last ten years."

"But why would he tape-record us?" Mr. Green asked, bewildered. "He's our handler. He already _knows_ what we've been doing."

Professor Plum offered up, "Maybe he was planning to blackmail us again?"

"Certainly not!" Wadsworth said. But whether it was the knife at his throat or something else, he sounded less than completely convincing.

Miss Scarlet leaned forward, her hands flat on the table. "Wait a moment. I've heard rumors in Paris about a leak in the U.S. government -- someone selling our secrets. To _Russia_."

Wadsworth swallowed, and a drop of blood ran down his throat.

At that moment, the kitchen door banged open. Sharon lunged through and grabbed Mrs. Peacock's arm. Faster than the eye could follow, she twisted the older woman into some kind of complicated hold, the dagger thudding point-first into the floor.

And then a deafening bang split the air.

Everyone froze. Except for Wadsworth, who stared wonderingly at Mrs. White, his mouth opening to ask a question he never managed to voice. Instead he sagged forward, planting his face in his bowl of soup, and didn't come up again.

"But --" Professor Plum sputtered. "Last time I was the one who had the gun!"

"So?" White said, tucking hers back into her purse. "A noose is hardly practical for most assassinations, unless you particularly need to be silent. Shall we just skip to dessert?"

***

**But here's what _really_ happened.**

***

No sooner had Sharon vanished back into the kitchen for the next set than Mrs. Peacock came into the room. The only empty seat was, by coincidence, the one she had occupied before -- but as she crossed behind Wadsworth, her dagger flashed out again and set itself against his neck.

He went rigid in his seat. "May I inquire as to what you are doing?"

"He's been tape-recording us," Mrs. Peacock declared to the room as a whole. "Just like before!"

"What?" Wadsworth exclaimed. His surprise looked wholly unfeigned.

"Why would he tape-record us?" Mr. Green asked, bewildered. "He's our handler. He already _knows_ what we've been doing."

Professor Plum offered up, "Maybe he was planning to blackmail us again?"

"Certainly not!" Wadsworth said.

Colonel Mustard leaned forward, putting one fist on the table. "Wait a moment. I heard rumors in Saigon about a leak in the U.S. government -- someone selling our secrets. To _Russia_."

"Who else knew we were coming here tonight?" Mrs. Peacock demanded.

Before Wadsworth could answer, the kitchen door banged open. Sharon lunged through and grabbed Mrs. Peacock's arm. Faster than the eye could follow, she twisted the older woman into some kind of complicated hold, the dagger thudding point-first into the floor.

"Let me go!" Peacock said, struggling with no hope of success.

"Wait a moment," Miss Scarlet said, rising. "I've seen you before. I thought it was just that you looked like Yvette, but -- you had dark hair at the time. You were in Paris!"

Sharon shrugged. "Yes, I was in Paris. On Wadsworth's orders."

But he frowned at her, looking perplexed. "I never sent you there."

"What?" She stared at him. "But -- I had a letter from you. With plane tickets in it."

"She's lying," Miss Scarlet said. "She's the mole."

"Well, I know one way to find out," Professor Plum said. He got up and went to where Sharon still had Mrs. Peacock pinned. "MKUltra has been an utter failure for mind control . . . but as it turns out, it is in fact possible to _read_ people's minds." He bent to stare into Sharon's eyes.

She locked gazes with him for two seconds. Then she bolted for the door to the hall.

But not fast enough. Green rose and blocked her way. A moment later everyone was on their feet, talking over one another with questions and threats, Professor Plum chortling that his bluff had worked -- all except Mrs. White, who calmly drew a pistol from her purse, took aim, and shot Sharon in the head.

The crack of her gun silenced the room. Mr. Green sputtered, "There was no cause to shoot her!"

"That's my job," White said, returning the gun to her purse.

"But --" Wadsworth stared down at Sharon's prone body. "Now we'll never know who she was working for."

Miss Scarlet snorted. "Oh, please. You have a roomful of dirty tricksters, and you're worried about _that?_ "

He blinked. "Oh. Yes, I see your point." Then he straightened up, smoothing the front of his tuxedo. "Perhaps we should skip to dessert?"

Six variants on an "are you joking" expression answered him.

"Right," he said. "Brandy in the study. And then we can decide what to do with the body." He sighed ruefully as they all trooped out. "At least there's only one this time."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was going to have only one ending. But I was having trouble coming up with one . . . so of course the solution was to write three?
> 
> Dr. Black is the name of the Mr. Boddy figure in the UK edition of the board game. Grivoise was one of the words Google Translate suggested when I plugged in "scarlet," but it means that in more the "bawdy/naughty" sense . . . which seemed appropriate enough. :-)
> 
> All the historical things referenced are real, but I don't claim to have ANY real knowledge of them beyond a quick Wikipedia search, because school failed utterly to teach me anything post-WWII.


End file.
